Tragic
by Lhiannan-Sidhe
Summary: Short, sad little one-shot. Twenty years after the defeat of Voldemort, two students visit a grave and remember.


Summery: Twenty years after the death of Voldemort, two students visit a grave and remember.

  


  


  


The boy was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. He was holding a wreath she thought he might have made in Herbology, but she wasn't certain. Of course he wouldn't be holding flowers, they just weren't _manly_ enough, but a wreath, she thought, was a nice gesture all the same.

  


He smiled at her when he noticed her walking towards him and brushed blond hair out of his eyes. She was a tall, awkward sort of girl, with messy, curly red hair and rather a lot of freckles. In her arms she held a bouquet filled with giant red and gold blossoms.

  


"Your hair needs cutting," she said by way of greeting and he smiled tentatively in response.

  


"Your hair needs brushing," he replied, exactly as he must have done a hundred times by now.

  


She stuck out her tongue at him and he grinned. Without another word the two of them turned to walk towards the main door. There wasn't anyone up at this hour, so they didn't bother going to the great hall for breakfast, it wouldn't be ready yet. Instead the two of them made their way outside. It was better this way, without anyone to wonder why a Gryffindor and a Ravenclaw were walking across the grounds so early in the day.

  


It was a pleasant, breeze sort of morning, the blue skies and cool wind seemingly predicating a stunning day to come, another signal that the end of term was fast on its way. The two teenagers stopped in front of a small monument, ringed by a row of hedges and marble benches, and surrounded by flowers.

  


They simply stood there and stared for a while before the girl stepped forward and placed her bundle of flowers at the very front. The boy was more hesitant, waiting a few tense moments before placing his wreath.

  


They didn't need any words, and even if they did, they wouldn't have known what to say.

  


After a while the girl dropped down onto the still dewy grass some distance in front the grave, eschewing the benches. The boy hesitated before sitting down next to her. They spent a few more moments in comfortable silence before the boy spoke.

  


"I never really stopped to think how young he was," he said with a vague gesture at the dates carved onto the stone.

  


"It must have been a horrible life," she said, somberly. "To live for practically all of your life with something like that hanging over your head, and then to die so young."

  


"I wonder why they buried him here, on school grounds. It seems a bit odd."

  


She lay backwards onto the grass and crossed her arms under her head before responding. "Because he once said that this was the one of the only places he'd ever felt really happy."

  


"How do you know that?" he asked, turning to get a better look at her.

  


"My father told me."

  


"Oh, right, your parents knew him, didn't they?"

  


She smiled up at a solitary cloud. "They were best friends in school, the three of them – inseparable."

  


He was quiet for quite some time after that, and the silence stretched out long and awkward before he finally spoke again.

  


"It must be pretty great - having an Auror and a famous Quidditch player for parents." He sounded faintly bitter, but then that didn't really surprise her.

  


She laughed slightly. "Yeah, well, Dad's been retired for years, and I don't see Mum much, she's too busy."

  


"Yeah, well, retried or not, he was the best keeper England ever had. No way they could have won the World Cup without him."

  


"Yeah, I guess so. It's weird, sometimes people still walk up to him when we're out and ask for his autograph. Mum seems to think it's funny."

  


"They'll both be here today, won't they?"

  


"Yeah, for the ceremonies, but I don't expect I'll get to talk to them much." She turned to look at him, and he shifted slightly under her scrutiny.

  


"What?"

  


"You never talk about your family."

  


He sighed heavily. "No, there really isn't much to talk about. My father is dead, and my mother and I don't really speak to one another much about... well, about anything."

  


"How come?"

  


"Oh, 'cause I was sorted into to Ravenclaw," he smiled slightly, as if an amusing thought had just occurred to him. "It's her fault, really. She sorta went into mourning when father died, she didn't have much time for me after that. She was pretty devoted to him," he shrugged, as if trying to look impassive, but his tone was laced with a slight bitterness, "So I read - really anything I could get my hands on. I raised myself on books."

  


"How did your father die?" At his responding facial expression, she was certain she had made a mistake asking, and was about to apologize when he spoke again.

  


"Same way my grandfather died."

  


"Oh."

  


"He was killed by an Auror."

  


She blinked a few times and opened and closed her mouth, unsure of what to say. He was gazing at her, his eyes intense. She was about to say something, anything really, but he cut her off.

  


"Father was always... bitter about my grandfather's death.. among other things. I think he wanted revenge, so he eventually went after the Auror that killed Grandfather, some woman named Tonks. Father nearly got her – very nearly."

  


"I - I'm sorry," she said. She seemed to be thinking of her mother. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"

  


"It's not a huge deal, I didn't really know either of them. Grandfather died years before I was born, and Father when I was only a few years old," he stretched himself out on the grass next to her. Turning to her he shrugged and smiled. "I wish I had a family like yours." She didn't say anything, so he looked at his watch. 

  


"We'd better get back to the castle," he told her, "It's going to be time for breakfast soon, and people will be coming down here to pay their respects." He stood up, and then helped her to her feet.

  


"Yeah, you're right." She stopped at the ring of hedges and turned back towards the grave. "Twenty years ago," she said looking at the date again. "He was only seventeen, not much older than we are. For all that though, he'll still be remembered as one of the greatest heroes ever to have lived, but if I were him, I would have just wanted a normal life. It's so tragic. It doesn't seem fair, does it?"

  


He glanced away. "Life isn't fair."

  


She nodded, and then waited a moment, still looking at the grave, unwilling to meet his eyes.

  


"Would you-" she began glancing back at him shyly, "Would you like to meet my parents?"

  


He bit his lower lip, "I don't think they'll like me."

  


"No, they'll love you, especially Mum. You're brainy, like her." At his questioning look, she smiled. "Not like me, I've got my dad's brains."

  


He shook his head, chuckling, unwilling to argue with her and looked towards the sun. "Come on, let's go."

  


And so they did. The two of them returned to the castle together, hand in hand.

  


  


  


"It's funny the way things turn out, isn't it?"

  


"I don't think there's anything funny about today - tragic, perhaps."

  


"That's not what I meant, look out there."

  


"Those two students? What about them?"

  


"Look closer."

  


"Ah yes, I see. Yes, I suppose that you're right; it is funny, or perhaps, merely ironic."


End file.
